


Flag Up

by chebomic



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24115111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chebomic/pseuds/chebomic
Summary: The envelope arrived as it always did, four or five days after her birthday. As always, Quinn Fabray was written neatly across the front, her address just as precise but noticeably smaller right below. The return address was there, too. As always. No sender, as always. The sender's name didn’t need to be written out for Quinn to know who it was from; it was written all over the cream envelope: in that recognizably neat writing on its front, in its thickness, and in the gold star sticker that adorned its back, serving an extra layer of security for its bulging seams.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Comments: 41
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have not written a fic in years and years and never for glee but i couldn't sleep and had a thought so here ya go.  
> i did not edit this and don't know exact timelines or precise details past season 3 or 4 (?), so just go with it.

The envelope arrived as it always did, four or five days after her birthday.

As always, Quinn Fabray was written neatly across the front, her address just as precise but noticeably smaller right below.

The return address was there, too. As always. No sender, as always. The sender's name didn’t need to be written out for Quinn to know who it was from; it was written all over the cream envelope: in that recognizably neat writing on its front, in its thickness, and in the gold star sticker that adorned its back, serving an extra layer of security for its bulging seams.

The envelope arrived as it always did, four or five days after her birthday, and Quinn repeated the actions that had now become ritual over the years: dump the rest of the mail on the entry table, set her bag gingerly next to it, walk past the kitchen to the couch, place the envelope on the end table, walk down the hallway to the bedroom, change out of her work clothes (black sweater over a white oxford shirt, charcoal blazer on top, dark jeans, brown Chelsea boots) into pajamas (navy Yale hoodie, grey WMHS sweats with warn bottoms, bare feet), wash her face, take out her contacts, walk back down the hall, fix a glass of bourbon (three fingers, two ice cubes) in the kitchen, and eventually plop on the couch.

Quinn sat on the side of the couch farthest from the end table she'd left the letter on. She reached out to the coffee table in the center of the room for her glasses, abandoned next to the book ( _Living a Feminist Life_ , Sara Ahmed) she’d left open, face down the night before when her eyelids became heavy and her mind sleepy. She’d probably have to reread the last chapter, she thought, since she'd been reading last night in attempt to distract from the disappointment of coming home to no envelope.

She took a sip of her bourbon, ice cubes tapping against her lips, and peered over the glass's rim at the envelope sitting several feet away. She cut her eyes to the windows across the room quickly, focusing her senses instead on the comfort of the sounds of honking and life seeping in from eight floors below.

Quinn had moved to New York three years ago now, after six years in New Haven earning first her B.A. in English (with a concentration in Creative Writing) and then an M.A. in English while she worked two years at Yale University Press. It had been an easy choice to make, to get her Master's. She wasn't really sure about grad school at first, but she'd finally broken up with Puck and didn't know where to go next. She'd spent her time in undergrad trying _—_ and often failing _—_ at being herself, not really thinking beyond four years. Her senior thesis advisor, who'd become like a father to her, encouraged her to stay and continue to the Master's, so she did. He also wrote her a recommendation letter for the Yale UP job, and even though working part time as an assistant editor had amounted to glorified copy editing and grunt work, she learned a lot about publishing and adored her coworkers.

Those two years had been enough time for Quinn to figure out that she wanted to pursue a PhD. She knew that academia, particularly the humanities, was a precarious career path. Getting a PhD would give her the most options in the future for teaching, which is what she loved most. She still wrote on the side, of course, but part of her M.A. involved being a T.A. for freshmen English courses, and she just loved helping students find their voices. She knew what it was like not to have one. So she applied to a few select programs, among them Yale (because her advisor wanted her to stay again. He'd more or less adopted her and she was happy to be have someone she could trust. She owed him a call; it'd been a couple of weeks) and Columbia (because it’s Columbia). There were others, sure, and she got into half the programs she applied to, but if she was being honest she knew there was only ever one choice. She couldn't stay in New Haven any longer. It had been everything she needed leaving Lima and up until that point, but it felt like a stepping stone to something else in the grand scheme of things. Plus, getting a B.A. and an M.A. and a Ph.D. all from the same department at the same university was, well, boring. Limiting. The other schools she got into were fine. Good, really. But she couldn't move to the west coast. She'd be too far away from the people she loved. Whether she saw them or not, it was nice to have them near. To know they were near. So New York was really the only option from the start, and when she got into Columbia she smiled guiltily at her advisor, packed up her apartment, and moved to the city.

She was in the third year of her PhD program now, aiming to finish next spring. Her funding was guaranteed for five years, but she was starting to feel restless. She'd easily passed her comprehension exams in the fall but dissertating was quickly becoming tedious. In only a few months it started to feel like a burden. She wasn’t sure if it was the stress of teaching undergrads while writing, the isolation of the dissertation writing process (her advisor at Yale had warned her the PhD would be lonely but reassured her she could do it, and her advisor here at Columbia had echoed the sentiment, though less gently), or something else. But she was tired. She was ready to be done and she knew that if she just put her head down and wrote, she could defend in the coming academic year and be done.

Quinn had been in New York for three years now. She was twenty-seven (which might as well be thirty, which might as well be forty). Soon she would be Dr. Fabray (or Dr. Quinn, Write-a-Lot Woman, as Sam likes to say). And as always, the envelope came four or five days after her birthday.

She tipped back her glass again, swallowing down the rest of the liquid in one gulp. She set the glass on the table, far enough away from her book so that the condensation wouldn’t pool and dampen its pages. She ignored the coaster a few inches away.

She lunged across the remainder of the couch, flicked on the tabletop lamp—it was getting dark now, but turning on the overhead lights would require her to get up and she was afraid she'd just go back to her bedroom and burrow under the covers—and scooped up the letter.

Turning around so her back rested against the armrest, she stretched out until her toes touched the side of the couch she’d recently occupied.

Quinn stared at the envelope, running her eyes over each letter inked on the front and following them with a fingertip. She flipped the envelope, stared at the gold star, felt the thickness of the contents between her fingers. Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she sighed. The star stared back at her, but before it could get a good look she began picking at it slowly, trying to lift up the sticker without damaging it. She succeeded, mostly, and pushed the flap of the envelope up to reveal pale pink pages folded inside.

She slid them out carefully, leaving behind the envelope’s other contents. For now.

After delicately unfolding the papers as if one wrong move would cause an explosion, Quinn flipped her thumb over where the pages gathered in the upper right corner, counting each page as it flitted by. Ten.

She set the pages in her lap and attempted to smooth out the creases a bit, buying herself a little more time. The first year a letter came _—_ three pages long _—_ she wondered why it wasn’t sent in a regular letter envelope. She'd thought a letter folded in thirds with only two creases marring its pages would make more sense. She quickly figured out, however, that the somewhat odd folding choice _—_ in half one way, then again the other _—_ was made so that the envelope’s other contents, what she’d left tucked safely away for now, remained untarnished. Complete. Worthy, maybe.

Swallowing hard, Quinn read.

_Dear Quinn,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_According to Sam, you are almost done with your PhD and are ABD (an acronym I had to Google when he said it). I am so proud of you, Quinn. So, so proud._

Quinn paused. Sam never mentioned talking to her recently. She wondered when they had talked to each other. Was it in person? By phone? Via email? Did they talk often? She knew Sam had been the one to pass along her new address after she had first moved from New Haven a while back. A couple of weeks before she was due to receive the envelope that year, she’d suddenly realized the potentially disastrous consequences of moving and panicked. She sent Sam a frantic text to cancel their dinner plans while offering no explanation, paced back and forth in her small apartment, and threw a book against the wall (she'd apologized to its smashed pages profusely and immediately ordered another copy on Amazon just to assuage her guilt). Sam showed up unannounced an hour later with a pizza in tow (bacon and jalapeño). He let himself in, flung the box down on the coffee table, crouched in front of Quinn's despondent form on the couch, looked her straight in her puffy, bloodshot eyes, and said, “Don’t worry, Q. I took care of it a while ago.” Then he’d turned _—_ still on the floor wedged between the couch and the coffee table _—_ and reached around awkwardly for a slice, mumbling around a Sam-sized mouthful, “I'm gonna eat this all if you don’t stop me.”

The envelope had arrived a couple weeks later, four or five days after her birthday, as always. She'd read through the seven pages repeatedly through the night until she fell asleep. When she woke up in the afternoon she’d called up Sam and told him to meet her at his favorite arcade bar in Brooklyn in two hours. They didn’t talk about it, but it was her way of saying thank you, and he grinned and kissed the top of her head and ran off to play Mortal Combat while she watched him happily from a corner booth nursing a beer and trying not to eat all their cheese fries.

She would have to call Sam to ask about the PhD thing. Maybe. Probably not.

Quinn looked back down.

_According to Sam, you are almost done with your PhD and are ABD (an acronym I had to Google when he said it). I am so proud of you, Quinn. So, so proud. I know you have people in your life who are proud of you that matter, but I thought you should know regardless._

She pinched the bridge of her nose. _People in your life who are proud of you that matter_? The throwaway declaration, written like a fact, was Quinn's doing. She knew it. She did this to the person that probably mattered second most. She kept reading.

_This year, the theme was Harry Potter._

Quinn gasped.

_This year, the theme was Harry Potter. It’s obvious, Quinn, that she loved—still loves—what you got her last year. I arrived early, of course, and she showed me her room. It was mostly the same as what I described to you last year, with one exception. All seven books are staked neatly, one on top of the other, on the shelf above her bed. Don't worry; I told her the books could fall on and concuss her. She laughed at me, so I mentioned the dangers to Shelby later. Hopefully she listens._

_But the books are there, Quinn, almost like a trophy. It reminded me of my Tony on my fireplace mantle. She had the reading light angled toward the books. To illuminate her prized possession like a spotlight. You gave her that, Quinn. And your card, like all the others before it, is pinned to the corkboard on her desk by the window._

_The party was at the house, as you've probably gathered. Each room was decorated to mimic something from the books. The dining room was set up like the Great Hall, just loaded with trays and trays of ridiculous, unhealthy treats. (None were vegan.)_

Quinn snorted, then frowned. Seriously? Shelby had gone out of her way to load up a table full of treats but couldn’t manage to make or buy one thing her own flesh and blood could eat?

_The living room was like a classroom, I suppose. There was a potions table set up in the middle where they made miniature lava lamps. I’m not sure what lava lamps have to do with Harry Potter, but I made one anyway, because it was better than talking to all the moms. Plus, it’s where I got all the “hot goss”, as they say._

Who says that?

_Beth’s best friend is still Emily. They both sorted themselves into Gryffindor and wore red t-shirts. All the kids wore t-shirts in accordance with their houses. Well, the houses they wanted to be sorted into. There was a lot of red. That one kid, Bryan—The little miscreant I told you about who shoved his hand in the cake before we sang Happy Birthday last year?—he wore green. Alarmingly self-aware._

Quinn hated Bryan. Little twerp. Last year with the cake and the year before that there was the whole biting incident. Slytherin was right; the kid was a menace. She flipped the page over, wishing briefly that the words were written smaller so more would fit on the page.

_Anyway, Beth sorted herself into Gryffindor. I assume this is because she is taken with Harry. Or Ron or Hermione—the gang, so to speak. You know, the general sparkling allure of Gryffindor and pre-war exaltation of blind bravery found in the first few books. She has only read through Prisoner of Azkaban so far. She seemed a bit embarrassed at this, but I assured her she is reading at an excellent pace for a barely ten year old who also does several extracurricular activities beyond her regular schooling. She has an ambitious plan to read the remaining four over the summer, deciding to forgo ballet camp (I'm sure Shelby is thrilled!) and focus her time on the wizarding world. For this reason, among others, I think she is better suited for the same house as her mother. Even though most people would naively sort you into Slytherin—and maybe they'd be right in some sense, back then, but we both know that between the two of us I'm the Slytherin here. The good kind, of course.—you’ve always been a Ravenclaw to me, Quinn, and Beth is too. She is clever like you. So, so smart, Quinn. Inquisitive. She is constantly learning, questioning, listening. She makes this face, just like you do, while she listens. We were talking about house elves—she brought it up as we were making the lava lamps—and I was explaining how many feel their portrayal as happily enslaved is incredibly problematic. Beth just watched me, taking it all in. Completely still, almost like a statue. You do that. Used to, at least. She just watched me, Quinn. Her eyes just bore right into you, and while the rest of her face is a little more like Noah's, her eyes are all yours. The intensity of them. The color. The way they sometimes say more than what she vocalizes. She is a Ravenclaw, just like you, Quinn. Curious and attentive and undeniable._

Quinn let out a breath, sniffed wetly through her nose.

_But she is also so warm, Quinn. So true and so free. I suppose that can be said of most kids, but it’s part of her like your strength is a part of you. She’s a little bit Hufflepuff where you’re a little bit Gryffindor. She is fiercely kind where you’re fiercely stubborn, level-headed where you’re sometimes brash, shiny where you’re stoic. Beth is you, if you could’ve been you from the start. You are wonderful, Quinn, and you always have been. Always will be. Beth is all of your wonderfulness set free._

_She made sure everyone was happy with their lava lamp. She made sure everyone got way too many of those ungodly treats from the makeshift Great Hall. She hugged each kid when they arrived (even Bryan the demon Slytherin spawn). And she ran upstairs to grab a yellow shirt for a new girl, Isabela, when she showed up in purple and mumbled that she didn’t know anything about Harry Potter. Beth came down huffing and puffing and grinning like a fool in ten seconds flat, handed over the shirt, and said, “You're a Hufflepuff, Isabela. You’re nice to everyone and never share secrets and even though you don’t say much, what you do say is important.” Quinn, I almost cried._

_Beth is all of your wonderfulness set free._

Quinn was fully crying now. She pushed the pages father down her legs so her tears wouldn’t ruin them. She stared at the sentence, deliberately repeated and set off on its own line. She read it over three or four or fifteen more times before finally continuing.

_Outside, Shelby had set up a quidditch pitch. Clearly, just like with the lava lamp "potions class"—Did I mention that she had a cardboard cutout of Maggie Smith in the living room? McGonagall! Supervising a potions class! I didn’t have the mind to point out this horrendous error, mostly due to the fact Beth hadn't said anything to Shelby. Loyal and protective, Quinn.—she had no idea what this meant. She essentially set up a soccer field, one goal on either end of the backyard, and handed all the kids little brooms and threw out a single, red dodgeball. She must've done some research, though, because she tied a little jingle bell to Ralph's collar and called him the "Golden Twitch", setting him free in the middle of the yard and proclaiming, "The team that catches the Golden Twitch will get two scoops of ice cream with their cake!" Beth shook her head at the misnomer, as did a couple other kids, but they all chased Ralph. I don't even think they divided into teams, Quinn, but it was amusing nonetheless. It took a surprisingly long time for Ralph to be caught. Everyone got two scoops of ice cream with their cake._

Quinn laughed. Shelby was an idiot, but she tried. And Beth was all of her wonderfulness set free, so she must be doing a good job. Even if she wasn't doing one with her biological daughter.

_Opening presents was an event. With every new gift, Beth waved her wand—more like a fairy wand than anything; pink and plastic and covered in sparkles—and said ACCIO [insert description here]. ACCIO BLUE BAG WITH PURPLE POLKA DOTS!, for example. I could not stop laughing, Quinn. She had fifteen or so presents and never waned in enthusiasm. She'd call out for a present, and the kid-giver would scramble out of their seat, race over to grab it off the kitchen island, and speed back as fast as possible to where Beth was sitting. It truly was delightful._

_Noah got her a pink basketball. Beth seemed amused, I think. Shelby rolled her eyes. She's still stuck on the "My daughter is into the arts, not sports!" thing. Which I never really understood, because: 1) dancers are athletes and she's tried to force ballet on her for years now, and 2) cross-training is an essential part of every performer's regimen. (You know this; your cheerleading enhanced your dancing. It was essential to your recovery from the accident, too, I believe. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Sorry again.)_

_Let me tell you a little secret, Quinn: Your daughter is going to be a soccer star. That dodge ball from the "quidditch game"? Once Ralph had been caught, most of the kids sprawled out on the grass for a bit, lazily having swordfights with their brooms in the air while recharging their batteries. But Beth? Beth was up, her broom long forgotten, kicking the ball back and forth with newly dubbed Hufflepuff, Isabela. I don't know anything about soccer, obviously, but every time the ball came at Beth she popped it up with the toe of her foot into the hair, bounced it off the top of her knee, and sent it right back with such ease. I think she gets that grace from you. You were always so graceful as a performer. (A little clumsy otherwise. How does that work?)_

_Your daughter is going to be a soccer star, Quinn._

A soccer star. Her laughter turned quickly back to crying, ugly and loud and full of snot.

_She loved your gift, of course. At first she was confused, because she opened the cover expecting it was a book only to find blank pages. She stared for a second, looked at Shelby, then at me. I told her it was a journal. That you used to write all the time at her age. I don't think that was a lie; I remember you reading or writing in the back of every other glee practice. I thought it was annoying at the time, but look where you are now. Soon to be Dr. Fabray. The reading and writing had a purpose all along, didn't it? (What did you write about, anyway?)_

_I'm getting off track, my apologies. I told Beth you used to write all the time at her age, and while we were in high school together, and that you write now, too. I hope that's alright. She perked right up, Quinn. Remember when you gave me that Metro North pass? You looked so delighted. And determined. Beth looked just like that, Quinn. She thumbed through the pages like she could count them all in one go, ran her fingers over the lines, smoothed her hand over her initials stamped in the cover. She loves it, Quinn. I know you were probably nervous to get her that green, but it's still her favorite color. I checked after everyone left, just in case. She would've loved it in any color, though; it's a gift from her mother._

Quinn set the page down on her left thigh, revealing the tenth and last page on her right. She didn't want it to end.

_Beth is beautiful, Quinn. She's happy and vibrant and incredibly intelligent. She feels with her whole heart and smiles with her whole face. She thinks with her whole brain, which sounds dumber on paper than it did in my head, but I mean to say that she is so thoughtful. Not impulsive, at least not with what she says to people or how she treats them. She takes her time and she soaks up every minute. She's careful and loving and everything good. All of your wonderfulness set free._

_But just like her mother, she can get a bit pitchy when she sings. I told Shelby to work on it._

_I hope you are well, Quinn. I really do. I hope you read this letter and know that Beth loves you. I hope you know that, despite Shelby's hesitance on the matter, Beth feels connected to you. She seeks that connection with every page of Harry Potter she reads, knowing that you read those same pages. She makes little notes in the margins, too, right next to yours. And she will write in her journal like she's writing to you. For you. Both._

_You are a wonderful mother, Quinn. I am so proud of you for that and for everything else. For all of it._

_Until next year,_

_Rachel Berry_

_P.S. If you should want to be in touch sooner, you know where to find me._

Quinn stacked up the pages, making sure they were in the right order three times. Instead of folding them back up, she placed them on the coffee table. She looked back down at her lap. Again, she found herself staring at the gold star. The two points that floated off the flap were fluttering slightly in the air conditioner's breeze. She flicked at them.

Picking up the envelope quickly, Quinn lifted the flap to open it further. She retrieved the remaining contents and held it to her chest. God, she could be so dramatic. Pathetic. Inhaling a deep breath, Quinn unwrapped a layer of neatly taped brown paper to reveal two thin pieces of cardboard sandwiched together. She lifted the top one off. In big, neat writing:

_Beth Corcoran_

_10th Birthday Party_

_Future Soccer Star_

Quinn smiled and flipped the photo over. Beth is taller now. Evidently so. A little awkward with big feet and hands that the rest of her body hasn’t yet caught up to. Beautiful. She is beaming at the camera, red dodge ball tucked under her arm and hip jutted out with a bit of attitude. Her hair is wild in the wind, pulled up in a ponytail, dirty blonde. It seems to be darkening with age, like Quinn's did, but more so. She can make out _Gryffindor_ written, rather neatly for a ten year old, on the upper left chest of her red t-shirt, a little lion drawn beneath. In the background, Ralph is running towards her, his shaggy hair making him a fuzzy brown blur with a pink tongue sticking out.

Beth was happy.

Quinn got up, picking up the letter from the coffee table and carried her treasures back to her room. She went to her dresser first, grabbing the closest of two simple wood frames that rested atop it. She flipped it over, released the back, and carefully tipped out the contents. It was a fairly thick stack, and on top was the photo from last year. Beth was smaller, somehow much younger looking at nine, holding Ralph up next to her face. The theme that year had been tie dye, so she was wearing a green and blue tie dye shirt under her overall shorts. In the background, newly dyed shirts hung on a clothes line. There was frosting, somehow, on her forehead. Quinn flipped it over. _Beth Corcoran. 9th Birthday Party. Loves green and Ralph._ The dog had been a Christmas present that year, Rachel had revealed in the letter, saying he was small and loud and unstoppable. Quinn had laughed at that. Sounded familiar.

She flipped the photo back over and laid the stack down on the dresser. Carefully, she tore off some of the brown paper that had enclosed this year's photo, using it as a barrier between it and birthday number nine. She had done this every year for eight years now, since she was a sophomore at Yale and an envelope had showed up at her dorm room with Rachel Berry's handwriting across the front. She had no idea what to expect, but a three page letter and a photo of Beth was not at all something she could have imagined. She didn't even know Rachel was in contact with Shelby, let alone invited to Beth's birthday party. She was angry _—_ jealous _—_ at first. But then she was immensely grateful. Of course, she never said anything. She couldn't. Where would she start?

Placing the stack back in the frame, she closed up the back and locked it in. It was getting to be a tight squeeze. She replaced the frame to its original spot, right next to a picture of her and Beth in the hospital. Quinn looked like a kid. Was a kid.

She walked to the closet now, pulling down a box from the top shelf and collapsing on her bed. As she did every year, she would read through all the letters in chronological order, comparing things she'd learned over the years. Taking it all in. Time really flies, doesn't it?

Quinn wondered how long Rachel would keep this up. She wondered why she did this in the first place. She wondered how long she could be ignored before she stopped sending letters and snapping photos. She wondered if Shelby knew about this. She wondered if Rachel always wrote one page per year Beth was alive on purpose, or if it was a coincidence. She knew it was intentional, actually. She wondered if there was a limit, though. Would she stop matching page count to birthday years because she'd run out of things to say? Would she write her forty pages on Beth's fortieth birthday? Would Beth even be in Rachel's life then?

Quinn wondered a lot, and when she finished reading through all the letters again for the third time, she hopped out of bed and made her way back to the living room. The envelope still sat on the coffee table, gold star catching the light from the tabletop lamp. She snatched it up as she walked by, heading swiftly to her desk under the corner window. Plopping down, she grabbed a notebook from the stack in the corner _—_ a new one, not yet written in _—_ and started writing. She kept writing and writing and writing until she had ten pages. She ended the letter abruptly, not wanting to exceed her self-imposed limit. She would match Rachel, but refused to exceed her. She tore out the pages and folded the stack into thirds. As they should be. She sealed them in an envelope. She wrote _RACHEL BERRY_ in her uneven scrawl across the middle and copied down the return address beneath it. In the upper left corner, in lieu of a return address, she wrote _Q_.

She didn't have stickers or anything to adorn the envelope, so she just licked the seal to activate the adhesive and slapped on a forever stamp.

She wasn't thinking. It was almost two in the morning now, and Quinn was running down eight flights of stairs to get to the mailroom off the building's entry hall. The elevator was loud and creaky and she didn't want to wake up anyone just about as much as she wanted to delay what she was about to do.

When she finally stood in front of the rows and rows of little metal compartments, all numbered to match the units and each having its own lock, she realized she'd have to walk up eight flights of stairs now, too. She wished she could use her personal mailbox compartment to send outgoing mail. That way, if she slipped it through the slot and immediately regretted it, she could simply unlock it and pull it out like nothing happened. Throw it away. But of course her building used a shared, larger compartment for outgoing mail. Only the mailman had the key, so once she slipped that letter in, it would be gone.

Quinn stood for a long time. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the outgoing mail slot and her compartment several rows down. Sam had put a sticker of the aliens from Toy Story on it when he'd helped her move in. He'd rushed her over, pointed eagerly, and in an excited little alien voice said, "Ooooooo." He drove her absolutely nuts. She loved him a lot.

She slipped the letter in the slot.

Oh no. The metaphorical red flag was up. There was no going back now. The letter would be sent.

She sprinted back up the entrance hall to the stairs and made her way as fast as she could into her apartment. She immediately found her phone and tapped out a text to Sam: _emergency-ish. call me. but not before noon_

Quinn flipped off all the lights, went back to her room, gathered up all the letters, and put the box back on the shelf in the closet. She took another look at Future Soccer Star Beth and crawled into bed.

She hoped she wrote Rachel's address wrong. Or maybe she'd think it was fan mail and trash it. That'd work too.

She rolled over into her pillow and groaned. She thought about lava lamps and jingle bells and red dodge balls and gold star stickers and, finally, Quinn fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was not expecting to get any feedback, so thanks so much for the comments and kudos!
> 
> here is the next part. i will keep writing if people are still interested, the story is pretty clear in my head.
> 
> i tried to proofread this time since i found some errors in the first part. eek. english is my first language but it's not what i talk/write in most of the time so spelling and homophones can be an issue. sorry if i missed some!
> 
> oh and, reminder, i didn't watch glee regularly past season 3, so some details might be off. the main things follow canon, i think.

Rachel hurried up the steps and unlocked her front door, looking back down over her shoulder briefly. She'd thought someone had been following her for a block or so towards the end of her run, but he jogged on past and she couldn't see a camera on him. Paparazzi weren't nearly as much of a problem at home in New York as they were when she was out in L.A., but they always had a knack for finding her when she just wanted to be left alone. She'd force a smile and talk about _Funny Girl_ and make jokes about _That's So Rachel_ because she knew how fickle fame could be. "Play nice, stay relevant, and only fuck shit up on purpose with my permission," Santana would remind her.

She hadn't fucked anything up without Santana's permission in six months. The Jimmy Kimmel incident. Rachel didn't think what she'd said about the film adaptation of Cats was that bad, but apparently someone from inside the Broadway world pointing out the scale inconsistencies and unheimlich human faces and strange cannibalistic quality of Judi Dench's cat fur coat over her cat fur body was unbecoming. #RachelSaidWhat trended for almost two days, people made ridiculous TikTok dances in (hopefully faux) fur coats to audio from her mini-rant, and her Instagram posts were spammed with comments filled with little tea cup emojis. Needless to say, Santana was not pleased and, being the amazing publicist she’d weirdly but unsurprisingly turned out to be, had immediately booked her for Jimmy Fallon in attempt to lesson the backlash. Rachel had done the Wheel of Musical Impressions flawlessly (Barbra Streisand, Cher, and Kermit the Frog to be cheeky) and all was forgotten by the time _Jane Austen Sings_ had its grand finale a few weeks later. Several months and a Tony later, the buzz around her was calming down and Rachel hadn’t become tired of the lack of attention. Yet.

She walked into the brownstone swiftly, turning around to scoop up the mail from the floor with one hand as she shoved the door close with the other. The tips of her fingers met the edges of the door’s mail slot, and she remembered that she needed to oil the flap outside. Every time she was home when the mail came, she could hear it squeak oh-so-gratingly as it was lifted up, even if she was upstairs. It bothered her far more than she thought it should and she knew it’d take a whole five minutes to fix. She'd do it tomorrow.

Clicking the lock shut, she peaked out the peep hole to make sure one last time that no one was out there. All clear. Turning around again, Rachel walked down the entry hall towards her kitchen and living room. She loved her house. It was big, but not too big. She'd hired an interior designer to help put things together when she bought it and was so happy that she did. Kurt had told her it'd be a waste of money, that she had a good eye—" _Now_ ," he'd emphasized—and plenty of money to buy what she wanted. That was all true, but she was just about finishing _Funny Girl_ 's two year run and wanted to reward herself with coming home after final curtain of the final show to everything ready and waiting. Of course, she had made sure to send the design team detailed lists of do's and don’ts, likes and dislikes, as well as virtual vision boards with style preferences and color palettes. She had also made it clear that the inclusion of a few beloved pieces of furniture and art and knickknacks was absolutely non-negotiable.

The result was more than she could have hoped for. Only a few minor adjustments—rearranging some photos and memorabilia so that their placement around the house better reflected their importance in her life—and she felt at home right away. The clawfoot soaker tub in her master bath on the second floor helped a lot with that, along with the vintage brass star knobs on the kitchen drawers and cabinets. She wondered when the call would come from Architectural Digest for their YouTube channel's Open Door series, but she'd already mentioned it to Santana. She’d bet that clawfoot tub upstairs that Santana would have it booked as part of promo leading up to her next project. Whatever that was.

Tossing the mail and her keys on the kitchen island haphazardly, Rachel spun around to look in the fridge. No leftovers. Some vegan cheeses. Several condiments. Half of a bag of wilted spinach. A mostly full carton of almond milk. Too many La Croix (she hated them; Kurt loved them). She needed to go grocery shopping. She'd go tomorrow.

She made a quick decision, pulling out her phone from the inside pocket of her windbreaker. She’d run six miles that evening. The goal was to run a marathon with her dads in Rhode Island next spring. She was a couple of weeks behind on her training, but she was determined and had plenty of time to get back on track. She’d run more tomorrow.

Rachel opened up Doordash and placed an order at her favorite pizza place, practically salivating at the thought of the pesto sauce and artichoke hearts and cherry tomatoes that would soon be blessing her palette. Replacing her phone, she hopped up on the outermost stool of the kitchen island's breakfast bar and spread out the mail until everything was visible. The only people that had her address were friends and family; fan mail all went to a P.O. box that Santana's team screened. After shoving ads and pamphlets for “Current Resident” aside, three items remained. That was actually a lot for one day. Sometimes she'd go a week or two without getting anything.

She eyed the first envelope, card-sized and lime green. The stamp had Spock on it and the return address said _Who else?_. She snorted. Rachel always liked Sam, he was steadfast and loyal and never, ever mentioned the weirdness between them after Finn died. She was thankful for that. He’d become a pretty close friend in New York, and even when he’d finally made the move out to L.A. they still kept in touch. They communicated mostly via text, but made an effort to FaceTime every month or two and met up whenever they were in each other’s stomping grounds.

She ripped open the envelope, sliding out an invitation. In the background was a purply-blue galaxy swirling in star-filled space.

**_Grand Opening!_ **

**_GALAXY'S BEST_ **

**_Friday, July 24, 2020, 7 p.m._ **

**_Out of this world games, drinks, and food!_ **

Rachel smiled. She sent him a quick text— _Sam, got the invite. So excited for you! I’ll do my best to make it out._ —and pushed the card off to the side to eventually put on the fridge.

The next item was a postcard. From Providence. Rachel rolled her eyes and flipped it over.

_Rachel—_

_How dare you roll your eyes at your adoring fathers! It’s not our fault we want to share with you every little thing we’re learning about our new home. Make sure you read the little caption at the bottom. This place is so full of history! We are loving retirement but missing you. Don’t forget we’ll be down at the end of the month!_

_Big love,_

_Dads_

Rachel smiled. This was the fifth postcard she’d gotten since her dads moved to Providence. Three weeks ago. They’d been so excited about finally leaving Lima and while Rachel had tried to convince them to move to the city, it seemed like they made the right decision in the end. They sent her selfies all the time with something absolutely thrilling in the background, like a statue of an important dead guy or another giant hill they’d conquered, and Rachel couldn’t deny that they’d never looked happier. She couldn’t wait until they visited. She couldn’t wait to run the Providence Marathon with them.

The last piece of mail was a rather thick letter. Rachel flipped it over to read the front and saw _Q_ written in the top left corner. Her stomach dropped. There was no way. Was there? Her eyes moved to the middle of the envelope. _RACHEL BERRY_. The handwriting didn’t look all that familiar, but the sinking feeling in her abdomen intensified. It was as if her stomach had suddenly emptied but was also simultaneously and tangibly full of dread. Or anticipation. Was that possible?

She flipped the envelope again and slid a finger under the flap, moving it across in one quick swipe. It tore up halfway across, so she repeated the motion from the other side. She pulled out the pages, unfolded them, and set them on the counter. She pushed the other pieces of mail farther away, creating a ring of space around the letter where she set her hands and began to observe. The edges of the pages were rough and uneven, no doubt torn out from a notebook. The folds were precise. The writing was chaotic. The _RACHEL BERRY_ on the front of the envelope looked like a lesson in print compared to the slanted, sometimes jagged and sometimes loopy half-cursive scrawled across the lines.

Rachel looked around the apartment. The fridge. The couch. The Tony on her fireplace mantle. The French doors leading out to the back patio. The stairs up to the second and third floors.

She looked back at the letter. It was still there. This was real life.

_Hello, Rachel._

She exhaled. Her hands pressed down on the countertop where they flanked the letter.

_Hello, Rachel._

_How are you? I hope you are well. Congratulations on your Tony. You looked beautiful and your speech was brilliant. Was winning everything you’d imagined? I hope so._

Rachel didn't know what she was expecting, but she didn't anticipate someone getting their PhD in English to write so…economically. A lot of ground was covered in just a few lines. You looked beautiful. She'd felt beautiful, for once. Your speech was brilliant. Her speech was absolutely terrible. She'd blanked in the moment and rambled about childhood dreams and her daddies and a glee club in sleepy Lima, Ohio. Then she'd almost ate shit attempting to walk off the stage in the wrong direction before being turned around and all but dragged off by those stagehands they have specifically for that purpose. And Quinn had seen it all. Oh god.

_I realize this letter might seem a bit out of the blue, but I needed to write you back. You had some questions—you always ask questions when you write—and I have some answers, along with years of gratitude and long overdue apologies._

Alright. She definitely wasn't expecting that.

_I'll start with answering your questions. First off, I don't think I'm that graceful. Maybe when I'm performing, like you suggested, because there's a focus. When I was doing routines with the Cheerios or dancing during a glee number or even running for prom queen, I had steps to follow. A task to complete. It's easier for me to hold everything—my body, my mind—together if I know exactly what I'm supposed to do. There's structure, I guess. But the rest of time? Everything in between? You said it: I can be pretty clumsy. When I'm not focused or I don’t have a plan or an order to follow or something to work towards, my mind kind of spins and my thoughts splash around and it all just leaks out into my body. Santana used to give me so much shit at sleepovers and parties because I dance like an idiot, Rachel. My arms get noodly and loose but my legs jerk around like they're not connected to the rest of me. It's still like that and I'm still pretty clumsy. I drop things a lot. Run into things often. Forget things everywhere. A couple of weeks after I moved here, I lost my phone. I was so sure I'd left it on the subway that I went to get a new one, only to come home to Sam sitting on the couch smirking at me. He got up, ushered me to the freezer, opened it, and gestured grandly. My phone was sticking out a box of popsicles in the freezer door. Sam was grinning at me like he'd won the lottery. I was so embarrassed and so frustrated that when I lunged to grab the phone I whacked my head right on the side of the freezer door. And then promptly fell back onto the floor. Like a cartoon. Right on my tailbone. Sam was horrified and I was doubly embarrassed and doubly frustrated. It took a while for me to recover from that incident, both in terms of my pride and my body. You're right, I think, that all that training in high school helped me recover faster from the accident. At least, it helped me think I could recover, because I knew what it felt like to not be in a wheelchair. I knew what my body was capable of, what it could do for me. But these days my clumsiness has consequences. Running into table corners with my hip or bumping my head on a kitchen cabinet hurts a lot more than it did before the accident. It takes longer to recover. Sometimes I skip my morning stretches or don't sleep right or both and I just ache all over. But none of that is your fault, Rachel. Don't apologize. I told you that back then and I still mean it. So believe me. Please._

Phew. Rachel blinked. Again. She shook her head. The letter had gone from brief statements and cordial questions to long explanations and detailed anecdotes with no warning. She'd gone from years of radio silence—the only reason she even knew her letters were being received each year was a thumbs up emoji she'd get from Sam a few days after she sent them—to so much information, so suddenly.

She read the paragraph again. She wondered if Quinn really didn't blame her. Logically, she knew it wasn't her fault. But guilt didn't run on logic. Almost a decade later and she still thought about the accident. About why she insisted on waiting for Quinn to arrive. About why she kept texting her. About how when they drove by the scene on the way to the hospital that little red bug looked like it'd been put through a junkyard car crusher. She still thought about all of it.

_Your second question—"What did you write about, anyway?"—comes with my first apology. I'm sorry for reading and writing during glee rehearsals. You're right that it got me to where I am now, but I never thought you noticed. I would have stopped if I knew it bothered you. To be honest, though, I never really had much to do in glee. Dancing around and doing backup vocals wasn't that challenging. It actually got pretty boring at times. So I read and I wrote while you and Finn—sometimes Santana or Mercedes or Blaine—sang because it gave me something to do. Somewhere to be. You know? Don't get me wrong, Rachel, I loved glee club. Well, I did by the end of it. It was nice not to be scrutinized all the time. Fading into the background has its perks. But I'm sorry that I annoyed you, it wasn't my intention. If I was reading, it was mostly for school assignments, but sometimes I read other things. When I was living with Mercedes after I got kicked out, her dad noticed I kept rereading the one book I'd brought with me from my parents' house; I was in a rush, otherwise I would've brought more. One day, he knocked on the doorway to my room and held up a little stack of books—a few short poetry anthologies and Beloved and Grimm's Fairy Tales. For a while I read those. They lasted me well past when I moved back in with my mom, and he let me keep all of them. He refused to take them back when I moved out and then again when I came home with Mercedes one day after glee senior year a couple of weeks before graduation. I have them all here, still._

Ugh. Rachel regretted telling Quinn her reading and writing was annoying. She knew no one really cared about glee as much as she did, but she always felt like she was writing into the void with her letters. She'd never gotten an answer back, so even though she knew they were being received it didn't really matter what she said. She kind of figured Quinn just took out the picture and skimmed for information about Beth.

She found her place again on the page.

_But mostly I wrote. I wrote about a lot of things and nothing at all. I wrote about glee and boyfriends and friends and cheerleading and my parents. I wrote about Beth. I wrote about little happy moments and big sad ones. I wrote about you. I wrote about things I'd change in the past and things I wanted for the future. I wrote stories. Some of them were real and others not so much. I read a lot and I wrote a lot and I'm sorry, Rachel. I should have been more present. Maybe I'd be less pitchy. (No, I don't sing anymore. I know you're wondering. Only in the shower and when I'm cleaning and with Sam in the park when he still lived here. No need to scowl, Rachel. You're the one with the Tony Award-winning voice.)_

The doorbell rang. Rachel's head whipped up so fast she got a little dizzy. She stared at the door. Quinn wrote about her? Was that included in the little happy moments or the big sad ones? Or the things she'd change? The things she wanted for the future? All of those? None of them?

The doorbell rang again.

Rachel hopped off the stool and made her way to the door, tipping up on her toes to look through the peep hole for the second time that day.

Pizza. Right. She'd ordered pizza.

She opened the door and grabbed the box and thanked the delivery guy. She closed the door and locked it so fast she heard a startled laugh from the other side. Rachel opened the box on her way down the hall and retrieved a slice. She was hungry. She was thinking. She started to walk slow laps around the kitchen island, eating her pizza with one hand while balancing the box in the other. She did this until she'd gone through half the pizza. Oops. She put the box in the fridge next to the bag of wilted spinach. She washed her hands thoroughly and resumed her position on the stool. What a day.

_Here's my second apology: I'm sorry for never writing you back, Rachel. The first time you sent a letter—"Beth Corcoran. 3rd Birthday Party. Princess in pink."—I was so surprised. Well, I'm not sure "surprised" is a good enough word for what I felt. It knocked me off my feet, Rachel. I loved it and I was so mad at myself. After everything I did in high school to try and get Beth back—not one of my finest moments; I was definitely off-kilter, my thoughts were just sloshing around in a constant high tide—I didn't want to fuck it up again. Shelby was nice, if I'm honest. Freshman year at Yale my mom called and said Shelby had called the house looking for me. So I called her and we spoke for a bit. She wanted to give me another chance. She'd heard I'd gotten into Yale and Puck had told her "I got my shit together". But my shit was not together, Rachel. It still isn't. So I told Shelby I would let her know when it was. She's not the hesitant one in this situation, I am. I didn't want to fuck it up with Beth then and I still don't. Your letters help me stay focused. They remind me of the ultimate goal: Get my shit together and be good enough for Beth. Sometimes, when I feel like I'm spinning again, I reread all of your letters. Look at all of the pictures. I want to be in Beth's life and you've given me the gift of visualizing what that could be like. In the meantime, I keep sending Shelby a card and present every year and am comforted knowing that she's close by in Jersey for when the time comes and my shit is together. That's part of the reason I came to New York. To feel that pull more tangibly. To have direction._

Rachel didn't know that Shelby had reached out to Quinn. She'd never even considered the possibility, because she assumed if Quinn could have, she'd be in Beth's life. Physically present. She'd showed up to Beth's 3rd birthday party under the assumption that Shelby's desire to "turn over a new leaf" extended to the girl's biological mother. Quinn wasn't there and Rachel was furious. She'd written that first letter half out of spite for Shelby and half out of a desire to reconnect with Quinn, who she hadn't seen since she and Santana had taught her the 2-2-2 rule the year prior. She kept sending letters every year because she felt obligated to. If Shelby wouldn't let Quinn see Beth, Rachel would make sure she knew as much about her daughter as she could fit in a letter and a photograph each year. So Rachel kept sending the letters and kept making snide comments to Shelby about reaching out to Rachel again when she wouldn't let Beth meet her mother. Shelby never said anything back, just pursed her lips and looked right at her and then changed the subject. Wow. Rachel felt like an asshole. She was an asshole. She needed to talk to Shelby. Apologize. She'd call her tomorrow.

_I'm sorry for never writing you back. You have to know how grateful I am, Rachel. Immeasurably so._

_I have to know, though: Why didn't you ever mention it? I know we haven't seen each other in years now. But there was that one time I ran into you at the Lima Bean during winter break my junior year at Yale. Then Santana and Brittany's wedding. Mercedes's album release party. You never said anything._

Of course Rachel hadn't said anything. Quinn never wrote her back so it was clear that she didn't want to discuss it. Right?

_I'll tell you why I never brought it up. It's the same reason I never used that Metro North Pass, except for when Kurt made me and Santana give you that intervention. I follow your lead, Rachel. After all the things I put you through in high school, I'll take only what's given to me. You never asked me to visit, so I didn't. You didn't mention the letters, so neither did I. What's your reason? (If that sounds accusatory, it isn't meant to be. I just want to know. Curiosity. It's the Ravenclaw in me, I suppose.)_

Oh.

_I have one last apology for you, Rachel: I'm sorry Shelby is an inconsiderate bitch. Too much? Probably. From your descriptions over the years, she is clearly a damn good mom to Beth. I will never be able to thank her enough for that. But you’re her daughter, too. I just can't believe that she didn't have something for you to eat at the party. I don't get it. I'm sorry. Have you tried Cocina Vecina in Washington Heights before? It's this little bakery/café wedged between a guitar store and a bike shop; if you're not looking you'll walk right by. Most of the stuff there is decidedly dairy forward, but the owner's daughter makes an obscenely good vegan tres leches cake. It's all I ever get. You should go sometime, Rachel._

Was Quinn a vegan now?

_You asked me a couple of questions, so I have a few for you:_

  1. _What have you been up to since Jane Austen Sings ended?_
  2. _Did you know your Cher impression sounds like Shakira?_
  3. _Did you get my flowers on opening night? (For Jane Austen Sings, I mean. I know you got them for Funny Girl. You told me in the second letter you sent me. "Beth Corcoran. 4th Birthday Party. Princesses are out, dinosaurs are in.")_
  4. _How are Santana and Brittany?_
  5. _Kurt?_
  6. _Are you going to Sam's opening?_
  7. _Are you actually dating Jesse St. James?_
  8. _Do you have a lifetime supply of gold star stickers, or do you order them as needed?_
  9. _How are your fathers? (Please say hello.)_
  10. _What's the target year for your EGOT? (I'm keeping track.)_



Wow. Okay. A few questions apparently meant ten for Quinn. Rachel read back through the list again. She was a little offended at the Shakira comment and had no idea if Quinn was being serious about the Jesse thing. Did people think they were dating? They'd done a charity concert together and gone for drinks after, but that's it. She'd check with Santana tomorrow.

_Now for the gratitude. I am so thankful for you, Rachel. Yes, part of that is because of the letters. Like I said, they remind me of the end goal. They help me keep my head on straight. Make me more level-headed. Balance my thoughts and control the chaos when things get off-kilter. Don't get me wrong; I do what I do because I love it and I'm good at it and I want to. It took me a while to realize I had to live for myself, probably too long, but I did. I'm going to become Dr. Fabray for me. But your letters—knowing that what I'm doing extends beyond me, that maybe one day my daughter will really know me and be proud—make all of it worth more. If I didn't know about Beth and her favorite colors and her kindness and her big little world, I'm not sure where I'd be. I'm not sure I'd have made it this far. I'm so close to having my shit together, Rachel, and your letters are a big part of that. I think it would've taken me much longer to get here without them._

_But I'm thankful for you in other ways, too. Rachel, you're the one who told me I was more than I thought. That I was better than I knew. I applied to Yale because I believed you. I left Lima because I thought if you could, I could. Maybe I wouldn't be a star like you, but I could get out like you. Reinvent myself. Be myself. No one else really ever believed in me. I did some terrible things in high school that I still regret. But no one empathized with me like you did. No one else asked me to come back to glee. We might have had different hurdles to clear, but I think our struggles were similar. Don't you? Maybe I'm overanalyzing things, but I'm thankful for you because you pushed me to be the best me. You made me think I possessed a little bit of that wonderfulness you speak of. (Thanks, by the way. But I think you have rose-colored glasses on.) You matter so much, Rachel. Knowing you're proud of me matters so much. I hate that you think otherwise._

_I hope you are happy, Rachel. I am proud of you, too. Very much so._

_Thanks again. For everything._

_Quinn_

_P.S. I was joking about the Shakira thing. Mostly._

_P.P.S. I wasn't about Jesse._

Rachel felt like she had whiplash.

Quinn's writing had gotten more cramped towards the end, like she was running out of room and needed to cram everything in. She wondered if she'd run out of time or things to say or a desire to say them.

She collected the pages into a neat stack and moved to put her dad's postcard and Sam's invite on the fridge. She tossed the ads in the little recycle bin by her kitchen garbage. She picked up the letter and relocated to the living room, settling in the violet velvet wingback chair that had been on the "Must Incorporate" list she'd given the interior designer all those years ago. Kurt had found it in a dumpster when they were living in the Bushwick loft. It was a little wonky and Santana had referred to it as a deformed purple people eater in drag, but Rachel didn't care. She fit in it perfectly.

Rachel flipped through the pages again, eyeing the inconsistent scrawl like it was a code needing breaking.

She took out her phone. Sam hadn't replied to her, but that wasn't unusual. They weren't the kind of friends to text back and forth quickly, but rather within a day or two. Unless it was important.

She typed out another message to him.

_We need to talk. I'll call you tomorrow. 9 a.m. your time._

Burrowing back into the purple people eater, Rachel started to read again.


End file.
